


Gunslinger

by Nightwing37



Category: Nonexistent
Genre: Gen, Intense Emotions, gunfight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightwing37/pseuds/Nightwing37
Summary: Out in the Wild West, there is pain and fire...
Relationships: Family - Relationship, Wife - Relationship, child - Relationship, enemies - Relationship
Kudos: 1
Collections: The Abyss's Flash Fiction Compendium





	Gunslinger

“Bring the money. Don’t be late Phoenix”

These sorts of notes always read the same to him. Having been a gunslinger, he was used to being hired in order to protect, save, or fix something or someone. He had read possibly hundreds of them over the years. They all started and ended the same; with bloodshed somewhere in the world. Yet, this letter was different. It was special. It was painted on the front of his house in black tar.

He had hid his face under that black bandana, but he was so starved for breath that he tore it off with reckless abandon. His body was wracked with pain as he fell to his knees in that Arizona sun. His understanding of the situation was as complete as it could be. He dared not step foot in that house because he knew that the death of his dreams of a better life was in it. He simply stared at the door as the wind and heat seemed to dry his tears before they ever could reach his cheeks.

Soon enough the sun began to set over the cliffs nearby. The big sky blue turned into a brilliant collection of lavender, sunflower, and rose-colored sky. He struggled to rise from his imprint in the desert sand, but grunted and mustered what little energy he felt he had in him. He grabbed the shovel on the porch and glanced through the window at the horror of his past. As he dragged the large tool with him through the brush, he began to chant a small mantra.

“Make your enemies feel the weight of your burdens.”

The box he had found at the end of his dig contained two things: a particularly ornamented revolver and a large cache of ammunition. He swallowed hard and fought his aching muscles to get on his horse. He rode, until the cliffs were no longer a mirage, but a portrait he could touch. He hopped off his steed and began to shake as he loaded his cannon. One shell, two shells, three shells, four shells. The cylinder only held six rounds. He hoped there were only six of them because the chances of reloading were slim.

As he rounded the corner to meet them, the emotions began to flow as he saw their numbers had increased. He was outmanned. He had miscounted and would pay for it. He lined up on the only exit to this ravine and grit his teeth to try and calm the tears that were finally flowing. The rage came flowing along with it under that moonless September night. 

When they reached for their weapons he began to feel a fire burn in him. One he thought long dead had been rekindled and under that jet black sky, he was set ablaze.

His gun began to glow and smoke, as did his eyes. His hands, and skin followed as he glowed white hot and screamed out; not in pain, but in anger and vengeance. He brought no money for these men. He only brought his shame, his guilt, his loss. He was going to make them pay. Every shot that rang out was another man dead. Their bullets burned into dust when neared his body, but his turned them into piles of ash for the wind to carry away.

When the dust settled, none were left, save the man on fire. Golden wings of flame protruding from his back as he stood. Every living thing burned around him as he slowly trudged to the middle of their resting places. He let out a guttural roar as the fire finally died and he was left, drained and weary. He fell to the ground with a small smile and slept until the sun arose in the sky.


End file.
